Desert Places
by starshipNCC-221B
Summary: In the aftermath of a series of worldshaking, brutal murders, trust becomes one of the most valuable commodities. But sentiment is an odd thing: You never know who the real enemy is.
1. Prologue

**Author's note: **On the title:

_Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast_  
><em>In a field I looked into going past,<em>  
><em>And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,<em>  
><em>But a few weeds and stubble showing last.<em>

_The woods around it have it - it is theirs._  
><em>All animals are smothered in their lairs.<em>  
><em>I am too absent-spirited to count;<em>  
><em>The loneliness includes me unawares.<em>

_And lonely as it is that loneliness_  
><em>Will be more lonely ere it will be less—<em>  
><em>A blanker whiteness of benighted snow<em>  
><em>With no expression, nothing to express.<em>

_They cannot scare me with their empty spaces_  
><em>Between stars - on stars where no human race is.<em>  
><em>I have it in me so much nearer home<em>  
><em>To scare myself with my own desert places.<em>

-Robert Frost, _Desert Places_

* * *

><p>In mid-December of the year 2013, a series of bloody murders sweeps across the nations of Earth, a wave, to be more apt, of unexplained and increasingly violent activity starting in London and eventually, over the course of two weeks, encompassing the entire globe.<p>

Naturally, the world is thrown into chaos. The civilian class begins arming itself, unconnected actions of violence escalate due to panic, and every day, the number of truly connected killings rises exponentially. And these killings are quite easy to find, due to one thing: the absence of blood in any of the bodies of the victims.

Every morning, the globe waits, hearts pounding in unison. Waits behind heavy curtains to see how many corpses will turn up on the streets of the world. News stations eagerly screech their bloody headlines. The public, in perverted curiosity, keeps their eyes glued to their screens as they hear of the latest murders, all over the world.

But nobody truly believes that this phenomenon will affect them. No one ever does in these situations. Most of the time, they happen to be right, because chances are that of all the people in the world, a very few will be hit by true, horrendous, devastation. Not so in this case.

But so it goes.

London, interestingly enough, is one of the least-hit of Earth's major cities. One Mycroft Holmes pinpoints the beginning of the activity to the fifteenth of December, in Bloomsbury. The first victim is believed to be a woman named Clara Schindler, found at five in the morning in front of 187 North Gower Street.

Three more victims are found within the London area on the sixteenth, and seven on the seventeenth. On the fourth day, however, London is only hit four times, and by the next day there is only one murder within the entire area. The phenomenon is unexplained, but Londoners are, for the remaining duration of the event, untouched.

The rest of the world, however, cannot say the same.

Near the end of the year, the wave of murders closes in on itself. It has, by now, covered the entire inhabited land on Earth and killings are happening daily everywhere there are people, except in London, which appears to be a sanctuary. As a result, travel to London rises dramatically.

On New Year's Eve many people are too scared to go out and celebrate, while others drink wildly and gorge themselves on food, out of fear.

Eschatologists stand at street corners screaming at the few who walk in the frigid air. Ham radio hobbyists gather their gear and drive their vans off to remote corners of civilization.

On New Year's Day, there are few celebrations.

Also on New Year's Day comes a totally unexpected and unbelievable explanation for the murders, apparently from the perpetrators themselves.

_Did you hear?_

_wtf vampires_

_How stupid does the media think we are?_

_I'm sure there's a rational explanation if everyone will just calm down._

_omg the vid has over a mil views already!_

_there is no way in hell that that is real_

_what kind of suckers do they take us for? LOL_

_I TOLD YOU THEY WERE REAL BUT YOU BASTARDS NEVER BELIEVED ME_

_Reporters these days will tell you anything to get you stirred up, sheeple. Quit believing everything you see online._

_this is a sick joke_

_dude it's real_

_NO ITS ACHULLY REAL_

_Considering the number of things people have said aren't possible in the past and have been proved wrong, I'd say that there is no logical reason why vampires shouldn't exist_

_you don't actually believe this shit, do you?_

_–Whoa like Twilight? 3_  
>—I'd say more like Stoker<br>–What's Stoker?

_My cousin was attacked last wk_

John sits back with disgust. "Have you seen this, Sherlock?" he calls in the direction of the kitchen, where Sherlock is out of sight, stirring something purple. He gets a distracted, muffled noise in reply.

"Look at this crap, Sherlock." John scrolls through a few more comments and then pushes his laptop away. He glances at the newspaper on the table next to him but it has the same ridiculous headlines as the online news.

"Hmm?" his flatmate replies.

John pulls the computer back and types something in the Google search bar. "The things people get up to these days," he mutters.

"You're far too young to be so jaded, John," Sherlock calls sarcastically from his position at the table.

The doctor looks up and grins. "Oh yeah? Come look at this then."

Sherlock takes a couple minutes to finish the mixture, swirls the liquid in a beaker, and sets it on the stove. He makes his way over to where John is looking through several current news articles.

"Vampires? John, don't tell me you're—" Sherlock begins dryly.

John cuts him off. "Apparently, this morning this group, sick pranksters or something, claimed credit for the murders that've been happening around the world recently."

"Which ones? Murders happen all the time, John."

"The bloodless ones. Mostly drained, or have you forgotten Clara already?" He says this without a hitch in his voice but his tone and facial expression reveal something else.

Sherlock sits down. "I'm sorry about Clara, John, but there must be a reasonable explanation for her death, as well as the rest."

John nods. "I agree, but the media seem to believe that the killings were actually perpetrated by vampires. Real-life vampires, the kind you read about in books. These sick bastards put a video on YouTube. They're saying that they've have been around for centuries but they haven't revealed themselves until now because 'the time wasn't ripe', or some bullshit like that. They're saying that the murders are a message."

His flatmate hums in uncertainty. "And the message is?"

John snorts. "Conveniently enough, they didn't say. They did mention that the organization of the murders would become more sporadic, that the 'vampire council' is letting all vampires do whatever they want now. I think they said something cheesy like 'darkness will stalk the streets of the world once more'. I was half wondering if the video was actually a trailer for some Hollywood movie."

The detective blinks slowly. He makes a strange noise and John turns, suddenly a bit uneasy. "What is it? You don't really believe this, right?"

Sherlock breathes slowly, in and out. He stands and retrieves his own laptop. "I have to show you something important."


	2. Chapter 1

_**2 February 2014**_

"Mind if I ask where we're headed?"

John stops to catch his breath. Sherlock, nearly half a block ahead, stops and returns to his flatmate's position.

"Scotland Yard. I have to talk to Lestrade about the case. Didn't I mention this before? I'll need police support for this one."

John laughs, still winded. "You. Asking Lestrade for help. First time for everything, I suppose," he says incredulously.

Sherlock scowls. "In my defense, I found this case on my own. And it's not like the Met is doing much in the way of real law enforcement these days."

"All right, so why are we running? We could just, you know, take a cab? Like usual?"

"Can't trust cabs these days, John, and you know why."

John grins. "Scared of enclosed spaces, are you?"

"John." Sherlock's tone is warning.

The doctor sighs. "Yeah, I know. Just stalling for time while I work up the energy to keep going. Not everyone can keep running for hours, you know."

Sherlock crosses his arms impatiently but a small smile plays across his lips. "Ready?"

"I suppose."

"You idiots are still out solving crimes?" Lestrade's tone of voice makes it clear that he is not about to help Sherlock and John with their case.

"Greg," John tries, hopefully in a more placating voice than Sherlock's earlier rant. He doesn't get to finish his sentence, however, because the DI shakes his head vigorously.

"Absolutely not. Come on, you two. It's after curfew. You shouldn't even be on the streets at this time, and you certainly shouldn't be trying to solve your petty mysteries right now. No offense," he adds.

John gets a weak "None taken," before Sherlock bursts in again.

"Your idiotic curfew is what's caused a rise in crime, Lestrade. If your people did their own jobs then you wouldn't have to worry about people like me getting in the way of your rules," he spits.

But Lestrade is adamant.

Sherlock and John end up leaving through a side door with an armed escort. John's face grows hot when he sees Donovan and Anderson sniggering in a corner before Lestrade shushes them, but Sherlock remains stony-faced and glares straight ahead until they are back at Baker Street.

The escort waits until the pair are through the door of 221B, then leaves with a curt nod.

"I wish they wouldn't do that," John says finally.

The two lean against the wall just inside the entryway. Sherlock nods. "The escort?" he asks.

John nods in return. "Wouldn't do much good if we were attacked, would it?"

Sherlock chuckles quietly, though still in a sour mood. "None at all. You're probably better equipped to stop a vampire than any of those amateurs in the Met, waving wooden stakes around."

They have to laugh. The tension eases a bit. "Yes, and I think I saw garlic on Anderson's desk," John adds.

"Oh, and did you notice the phial of water in Lestrade's drawer when he opened it? Probably holy water. I'd have thought he was too practical a man to believe in superstitions like that but I suppose there's a first time for everything."

They head upstairs.

John's view is blocked by Sherlock, who is looking back at his flatmate, which is why neither of them notices the intruder until they hear the short scream burst from the far end of the room.

John whips his Sig out and Sherlock is halfway across the room with the knife he's started carrying around recently — because even he knows the wisdom of taking reasonable precautions — before they realize that they know the figure crouched in the corner.

It's Molly Hooper, St. Bart's Hospital pathologist, and she looks scared to death.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do and Mrs. Hudson let me in a few hours ago, she told me you two were out but she didn't know what you were doing and you didn't show up until now and I was _terrified_, honest to God," Molly flounders, face flushed, hands wrapped around the cup in front of her.

They're sitting at the table in the kitchen, Sherlock's equipment mostly cleared away, and John's made tea. Sherlock declines to have any but Molly eagerly takes the hot liquid and drains down half of it before she can speak in a coherent manner.

"Slow down," Sherlock instructs. "Start from the beginning."

So she does.

"I — I was at Bart's. This afternoon. It was around one-ish and I was coming back from the canteen. When I got back to the mortuary the door was open, which I thought was a bit weird but sometimes I forget to close it so it wasn't that weird," she pauses to take a breath, "so I went in and all the cadavers were— _ohh_," she moans, and pauses again.

John goes to a cabinet and pinches a small quantity of white powder into Molly's mug. "Finish that cup and finish what you were saying, at whatever pace you feel comfortable."

Molly gulps down the remaining half of the cup and wipes away the beginnings of tears from her eyes.

"Okay. Okay.

"They were all sliced up, no particular pattern, but they were all horribly mutilated. It didn't look like knife work. More like the kinds of things I've seen on vampire victims but these were already dead before _it_ happened and they still had most of their blood…" she trails off.

Sherlock leans in, genuinely intrigued. "Flamboyant vampires. Now there's something _new_," he mutters.

John shoots a warning glance at his flatmate. Sherlock shuts up.

Molly looks uncertainly at the two, then continues when John nods at her.

"I got back to the upper levels and told my supervisor. They had the Met there within fifteen minutes. All of us — employees, I mean — had to leave after they examined us."

Sherlock interrupts. "Examined?" Then he answers his own question. "Of course. For vampirism. What did they do? Make you drink holy water?" he asks sardonically.

Shaking her head, Molly says, "They were pretty methodical. They brought us out in groups to test us. First sunlight. Then they brought out these big bags of blood to see if any fangs dropped, and then they took our pulses individually."

"Not even garlic, then. They're more well-informed than I'd thought," Sherlock says, partly to John and partly to himself. "Why didn't they stop after you were brought into the sunlight? Do they think that there's a way around the vampiric reaction?"

Molly starts sharply. "I hope not! I think they just wanted to be sure, you know. Extra precautions. There shouldn't be any way for vamps to avoid the effects of sunlight, especially since they probably haven't had as much access to labs, but, still, if the government hasn't even discovered something like that, _they_ shouldn't be able to."

"They've only just learned about this in the last couple months, you know," John reminds Molly. "The vampires have had eons to develop some sort of shield."

"Yes, but if they had something like that, they could've overtaken the world by now. They don't need sleep, right? They're nearly tireless. They'd be able to fight, day and night, until we gave up or collapsed." Molly rebuts.

Sherlock dismisses this. "Their goal isn't defeat of the human race."

"How do you know?" asks Molly.

"They aren't even trying," the detective says derisively. "Petty scares like the one at Bart's, nighttime intimidation, these aren't serious threats. Not to say that vampires aren't a threat, but the things they've been doing, they're nothing. But everyone's been losing their heads and scaring themselves, instead of asking questions."

"Questions such as?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, leans forward. "Why now? Why did they come out now? And why the way they did? YouTube? Honestly. It's juvenile."

"So do you have an explanation?" John asks.

"I'd say it's a group of younger vampires. More modern, maybe born within the last half-century. Perhaps tired of their elders' secretive way of life. I'd bet money that they've read some of that fantastical contemporary vampire fiction. I believe the genre is called 'paranormal romance' these days."

Sudden footsteps are heard on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson comes through the door, stops when she sees John and Sherlock, and gives a half-exasperated, half-relieved sigh.

"You silly boys, I thought you were dead!" She pulls the pair into a hug, improbably managing to get her tiny arms around both men. "I was about to call Greg Lestrade but I thought I'd check on you, dear." The last is to Molly. "You know, it's getting quite late. It'd be dangerous to go out now, not to mention that curfew. You'd better stay here tonight, dear."

Molly tentatively raises her voice again. "Actually, that was sort of why I came here earlier. After the police finished at Bart's they said that the hospital would have to be closed indefinitely, until they had the vamp thing more under control." Sherlock snorts at this. "Anyway, they said that we'd all be paid a reduced wage until we found new jobs and that we should all make sure that we're not living alone. My flatmate, Ettie, she works — worked — at Bart's, too. She's American, and she decided this afternoon that since she wasn't going to have a job anymore, she was going to go back home and stay with her family. In Illinois. She left this afternoon, didn't take much. Most of the other few people I can call friends," here she flushes, "have gone as well, and my family lives up north. You two — well, three — are the only people left in the city I can trust. So, er, I was wondering if, um, maybe I could stay here, 221 Baker Street, for a few nights while I get things sorted?"

John says, "Well, that's up to Mrs. Hudson—" but at the same time Mrs. Hudson is saying, "Of course, dear."

Molly's eyes light up. She wipes her face again. "Thank you, thank you so much. I didn't know what I'd do if I hadn't been able to stay here. I'll be out soon, I promise."

"Don't worry about it, dear, take as much time as you need," says Mrs. Hudson. And then, "Oh. Oh, where will you be sleeping? My flat is a bit small, only one bedroom, and I don't think you want to stay in 221C. I certainly wouldn't want to sleep there."

Molly glances around. "I can stay on the sofa, here, if that's okay," she says to John and Sherlock. "I won't get in the way."

Sherlock and John share a glance. Sherlock's lips tighten ever so slightly and John's chin might dip down fractionally, but whatever communication passes between them ends with, surprisingly, Sherlock saying, "I think I'll have the sofa, actually. You can stay in my room. I'll clear out some of my rubbish."

"Oh, no," Molly's eyes widen. "I wouldn't want to take your bed—"

Sherlock waves it off. "I don't sleep in it very much, actually. Most nights I get to bed quite late or not at all. I usually stay in the kitchen and work. The sofa will be convenient."

"But—"

"And no-one else here is trained to wake up to audial anomalies. John would sleep through a creak on the stairs or the sound of the door opening, shame on him, calling himself a soldier — and I don't think the sitting room is the safest place to sleep. Since I will be doing the least sleeping, it is only logical that I should take the sofa. Oh, and speaking of intruders, Mrs. Hudson, you should probably move upstairs as well, or barricade your door extremely well at night," Sherlock finishes.

Mrs. Hudson puts her hand to her chest. "You don't actually think that the — the _vampires_ could get in here? But I thought they couldn't enter dwellings without permission."

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. "It's a precaution, Mrs. Hudson. And I'm sure that an extremely determined vampire could find a way to kill you without entering the building."

"_Sherlock_," John hisses, flicking an irritated glance at his flatmate.

The detective stops and looks at John. "Not good?" he questions, already knowing the answer.

"Bit not good, yeah."

Mrs. Hudson takes several deep breaths. "Perhaps I _should_ move upstairs. Molly dear, would you object to my moving my bed into Sherlock's room?"

Molly smiles. "Not at all. It is your room, you know."

"Yes, fine," Sherlock breaks in, as Mrs. Hudson is about to reply with another "but I don't want to intrude" remark. "It's settled. Molly, you can get your possessions tomorrow morning."

And with this, and an eye roll, this time on John's part, the matter is closed.

Sherlock goes to his room, pulls a few things out, and returns downstairs to work casually on his latest project, something involving a sweet-smelling _furry_ liquid, of all things.

Molly stands around for a few minutes, then goes upstairs, oddly enough, the only person in 221 Baker Street to feel the least bit uncomfortable about the arrangement.


	3. Chapter 2

_**10 February 2014**_

"It's been over a week, Molly. I think if anyone here were going to attack anyone else they would've done it by now. You're welcome to keep looking for other accommodations but I think I speak for all of us when I say that you can stay here as long as you need, even wait out the chaos here if necessary," John says.

Mrs. Hudson nods her head in emphatic agreement. Sherlock makes a barely audible noise from his position hunched over the stove that John takes for agreement.

"Are — are you sure?" Molly asks timidly.

She's just returned from another unsuccessful attempt to find safe lodging. The seventh of such prospects, this one has been rejected because all of the former occupants have cleared out, leaving only an innkeeper, and Molly is not keen on staying alone with a stranger.

"Absolutely." John is resolute.

So Molly stays.

_**11 February 2014**_

Sherlock finishes the case on his own, without the help of the Met, and he doesn't let Lestrade forget it when he's pulled in to Scotland Yard by the DI.

"But you could have been attacked, Sherlock! I don't care how many times you get away with it, one day it's going to catch up with you and you'll be killed. I still don't understand your luck." Lestrade tries not to let on too much that he's also a bit envious of Sherlock's success, but his eyes give him away.

"You can scold me all you like, Lestrade, but it won't change the fact that during the past month I've prevented more crimes than half of your force combined," Sherlock says, with an insolent smirk. He puts his hands in his pockets whilst Lestrade glares at him. "So what is it?"

"What is what?" Lestrade asks, still scowling.

Sherlock exhales. "The case. You didn't pull me in to admonish me for curfew violation, or you'd be doing the same to half the city. Give your ego a break—" here John snorts, "—and just tell me what it is."

A very long minute passes before Lestrade sighs and says, "All right."

"We found him in Shoreditch, about a block from the church. He was unconscious, didn't even know those things could be, but he was. We're holding him here until we know what to do with him," Lestrade explains as they trudge down the stairs towards the holding cells.

They arrive in front of a fiberglass-fronted cell, as opposed to the steel bars of the other cells in the hallway. Two other cells are in the process of being fitted with transparent fronts as well, each more than a foot thick. The rest of the small room that the little party stops in front of is concrete.

Inside is a pathetic-looking man, drooped over himself in a far corner, shunning the bed. His head is down but his face appears to be extremely grey.

Sherlock takes a glance inside and taps the fiberglass. "This isn't necessary."

Lestrade is incredulous. "Sherlock, you do realize that these creatures are exponentially stronger than you or me, right? We were worried that the glass might not be thick enough, in fact."

Making a dismissive noise, Sherlock shakes his head. "Normally, yes, this pane could possibly be broken by a very determined vampire, but this man here," he gestures, "is starved. He can barely move. He probably hasn't fed for weeks. And before you say it could be an act," he says, when Lestrade opens his mouth in protest, "it isn't. I can tell. You should check his bodily fluids. He's probably nearly dry."

"It's a precaution, Sherlock. You never know what they might be able to do," Lestrade says. "Anyway, we're not worried about his health—"

"You should be," Sherlock interrupts. "Those are the questions you need to ask. Why is he this starved if you found him in the middle of the city? You should get some scientists down here. I'm sure there are hundreds of biologists who would kill to have access to a live vampire. How long can they survive without blood, for instance? Or what causes the allergic reaction to sunlight? You know how valuable that information could be. I'd suggest handing him over to the government, before the media or some crackpot scientist gets their hands on him. I can call my brother…"

John stares at Sherlock, repressing a laugh. "_You?_ You're calling Mycroft? Now there's a first."

"Shut up."

Lestrade holds up a hand quickly as Sherlock is pulling out his mobile. "No, hang _on_, nobody's calling anyone."

The two pause. "Why not?" they ask in unison.

"Because," Lestrade says nervously, "there's something in him that we can't let the government see."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Tell me more."

"Wait, hang on, why are you letting us see it then?" John asks.

The DI looks around nervously, and then leads the duo to a side room.

"We've put a sort of trace in him. Mainly GPS and audio transmissions. It's deeply embedded, nowhere anyone will find it, and he doesn't know about it. We know that this could be incredibly important to science but right now, what matters is law enforcement and, as you did mention earlier, we've fallen a bit behind on that aspect of the job. If we could get an idea of the vampire orgnisation structure, locations, identities, etcetera, we'd be a lot closer to having some control over the situation."

Sherlock's brow creases, then smooths itself. "You've _tagged_ him?" The contempt is evident in his voice. "Like a _dolphin_?" he sneers. "You think that you're going to release him and that chip in him is going to lay at your feet the secrets of the vampire horde?"

"It's not quite like that—" Lestrade begins, face flushed.

"Oh, but it is, isn't it? You _idiot_. You know how sensitive vampires are, don't you? Flawless sense of smell, incredible night vision, and you don't consider the fact that they'd be able to find your tag? Even if there was an organisation of any sort, which I still am finding difficult to believe, _even_ if this one man was so weak that he couldn't feel the object embedded in his own skin, any other vampire that he'd meet would find the tracker within seconds."

Lestrade folds his arms. "I don't think—"

"That much is evident," Sherlock scoffs. "I don't think this vampire will be much of a help to you, anyway. He'd probably be killed by the first Generation he meets, if no Turned get him first."

"Why would they do that?" both John and Lestrade ask.

Sherlock nods through the window in the small room's door. "That man has abstained. If you check his bloodstream you'll find traces of drugs used to keep him from trying to feed from humans. Doctor, most likely, before he was turned. Most vampires, older ones especially, don't accept that kind of behavior. I've seen abstinent vampires killed for the practice."

John stares at his flatmate. "Wait, what? You have?"

"Through Mycroft's CCTVs," Sherlock amends. "I hack his feed on occasion just to see if I still can. After these kinds of attacks, I try to get to the scene as quickly as possible to examine the body before it deteriorates."

"You _what_?" John asks incredulously.

"I usually get back before you wake up," Sherlock says dismissively. "You sleep through any disturbances I make and the new sleeping arrangement has made it a lot easier to get out at night without bothering anyone."

John crosses his arms now. "We're going to talk about this when we get home," he promises.

Lestrade back and forth between the two of them. Finally he speaks. "Fine, okay. So you think we won't gain anything from bugging him. What are we supposed to do with him then? Let him go? I don't think so. Honestly, I might trust your opinion, but the rest of the Met doesn't, and the tag's already in him. It was an expensive bit of equipment but most people will see it that we don't stand to lose much in this operation, and a lot that we can possibly gain."

"Fine. Do what you want," Sherlock says in disgust. "Has he been examined by anyone at all?"

The DI shakes his head.

Sherlock hums neutrally, then arrives at a conclusion. "Mind if I take a look, then?"

"_What?_"

"You heard me," the detective says. "Is there a problem?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade begins, "that's a _vampire_."

Sherlock is already opening the door onto the main hallway. "A very weak one, yes. I take it you have no objections, then?"

John and Lestrade follow Sherlock out to stand in front of the glass-fronted cell again. "If he gets killed," Lestrade mutters to John, "you won't blame me, will you?" But he knows, as usual, that Sherlock is right.

Lestrade punches a ten-digit code into a pad on the wall and presses his thumb to a fingerprint scanner. Then he pulls out an ordinary key and inserts it into the cell door's keyhole.

"Something old, something new," Sherlock murmurs, glancing at the mechanism.

"Locks can't be hacked; biometrics identifiers can't be picked. You can't be too careful," Lestrade says quietly as Sherlock steps through the now-unlocked door.

The captive vampire remains in the corner, legs pulled tightly to his body. He raises his head slowly, eyes filling with what looks like terror.

Sherlock steps inside leisurely. He keeps his eyes focussed intensely on the other man as the door shuts with a quiet _click_.

The two scrutinize each other in silence. Lestrade is suddenly struck by how helpless the vampire truly looks, Sherlock towering over him. He has to remind himself that these creatures are incredibly manipulative and he should be ready to get Sherlock out at any moment.

John and the DI remain outside nervously, as the seconds pass, and then minutes, before the vampire tucks his head back under his arms and gives a muffled, "What do you want?"

It's the first sentence Lestrade has heard from the prisoner. His voice is thin, almost whiney.

Sherlock doesn't reply. Instead, he moves forward and sits on the bed, still looking at the vampire on the floor, who raises his head again after a few minutes. "Why are you still here? Are you going to kill me?" His voice is almost hopeful on the latter question, but Sherlock shakes his head. "I wish I was dead, Inspector, I really do. I didn't want to be like this." He finally starts talking earnest, though his volume doesn't rise very much. Lestrade and John have to strain their ears to hear.

"If you aren't going to kill me, you should leave. The drugs will wear off soon. I can start to feel it. Kill me. _Please_."

John raises his eyebrows in Lestrade's direction at this confirmation of Sherlock's deduction. He receives a short grunt of acceptance in return.

The vampire is still speaking. "I haven't fed from anyone since the first time, I promise. I can't be any help to you. If I knew anything I would tell you. You'd be better off with me dead," he says again. And then, more urgently, "I can start to smell your blood now. The drugs are supposed to numb my senses and cravings. I can tell you where I got them, if that's what you want. They do work, Inspector. If I tell you, will you leave?"

Sherlock shakes his head again. "I'm not an Inspector, and I'm not doing an official investigation," he says finally. "I'd like to talk. Intelligently, if you can manage that?" John barely detects the sarcasm below Sherlock's tone.

The vampire doesn't answer. Sherlock appears to take this as agreement. He leans forward, about to speak.

Suddenly, the vampire shrieks. "Why won't you leave me alone?" He curls up as tight as he can in his corner, and abruptly starts sobbing.

Then the wailing starts. "I thought, here at least, I could die in peace, but you found a way to get in, didn't you? You monsters, you want to make me like you?" He finally sees John and Lestrade on the other side of the transparent barrier. "You're human, help me!" he screams, wild-eyed.

Sherlock backs away slowly, hands up. The howling continues. "Fools, the lot of you! Wait until you're dead, will you?" And then, suddenly changing his tirade, "You're like _them_, aren't you? _Monsters_, all of you!"

Sherlock feels for the door behind him, currently closed. Lestrade hesitates, but the delirious vampire doesn't look like he's going anywhere, so he opens the door just enough for Sherlock to slip through before slamming it quickly.

Inside, the prisoner starts tearing at his own skin with his fingernails.

Even Sherlock is visibly shaken. "It could be a side effect of the drugs," he mutters. "Or he could be strong-willed enough to keep himself from feeding from me while I was in there, with this as a result. Mania in hunger, perhaps." He looks to Lestrade.

"He seemed rational enough when you first entered," the DI sighs.

"For a starved vampire, yes. But these could be withdrawal symptoms. If he's been on those drugs since he was turned, he's probably so dependent on them that he doesn't know how to control his thirst. It was lucky that the mania manifested itself before the thirst," Sherlock says.

"Damn right," Lestrade says angrily. "What if he'd ended up attacking you?"

Sherlock's mouth flattens. "I think we've established his weakness, Lestrade. He isn't in any shape to attack anyone."

"I don't know, Sherlock, that screaming looked pretty vigorous to me," John says as the group ascends the stairs back to street level.

"Text me if you find anything else," Sherlock mumbles, pulling out his mobile and scrolling through his short list of contacts.

"Wait, I thought you'd have a recommendation of some sort," Lestrade calls after the duo as they walk out the doors.

Sherlock doesn't pause as he sends the text. "He won't last a week, Inspector. Not hungry and without his suppressant drugs. My recommendation is a mercy killing."


	4. Chapter 3

_**13 February 2014**_

"You know Harry?" John asks, in shock.

Molly nods vigorously. "We're actually quite good friends—" she begins.

"Harry has _friends_?" asks John incredulously.

The pathologist grins a little. "I know, she seemed like such a disagreeable person when I first met her, but she's actually quite nice once you get to know her. I suppose you'd know, being her brother, but, you know, I think she's just lonely. I've been to see her a lot during the past few weeks and I've actually gotten her to go on a few walks with me, fresh air and all that, and I don't think she's been drinking that much."

"How on earth did you and _Harry_ meet each other?" John wonders, still disbelieving.

"She, erm, stumbled, quite literally, into the mortuary one night, sometime last year. I think someone had tried to get her to Accident and Emergency but probably didn't know her very well. It looked like she'd been in a bar fight," here John snorts, "and whoever took her to Bart's wasn't very close to her because they'd appeared to have left. We don't even have A&E at Bart's so I guess she'd just wandered around a bit before ending up in the basement. She looked pretty bad but once we got her cleaned up a bit it turned out she was just a bit scraped up, nothing to worry about. We chatted a bit. I'm not sure exactly how we ended up meeting again but she's one of the few people in this city I can still trust, at least when she's off the drinks. I guess she's never told you about this…" Molly trails off, looking disappointed.

John shakes his head, "Don't worry, we don't talk that much. You're probably closer to her than I am," he says ruefully. "But you trust her enough to stay with her overnight? Not that I don't trust her," he adds hastily, "but you're comfortable with it?"

Molly bobs her head. "Oh, yes. She said that she's been pretty lonely. I thought I'd go over for a night or two to keep her company, especially since she's probably still getting over the shock of Clara's… er…" She stops.

John nods. "I know. I should be trying to help her more, too. I'm sure having someone like you to lean on will be good for her. Even if she pretends she doesn't need support."

_  
><em>_**14 February 2014**_

"I'll be gone for days, Sherlock. There won't be anyone in that bed and I think you should get some real sleep tonight. You've been staying up too long lately," Molly says.

Sherlock protests. "But my experiment—"

"You haven't started yet. Do it tomorrow. Get some rest and forget about your cases and experiments and just relax, for a change," she insists.

"Yeah, Sherlock," John joins in from the other room.

"Not you, too," Sherlock growls.

But eventually, Sherlock relents, and promises to sleep in his own bed tonight.

Molly's been at Harry's place for several hours before she realizes that she's left her mobile at 221B, on the kitchen table. She berates herself under her breath for making such a silly mistake, then apologizes to Harry as she runs outside to find a cab. She can't risk someone panicking because she doesn't answer the phone.

The sun is a couple of hours below the horizon when the cab arrives at the flat. The late-afternoon traffic had been much heavier than usual. Molly wonders if she might be able to get back to Harry's before curfew, but the last rays of light have left the sky already and she knows she'd going to have to apologize for her forgetfulness tomorrow. It's going to be another night at 221B.

She steps inside quietly, not wanting to disturb John or Sherlock, who've jointly promised to go to sleep early. No running around chasing bank robbers or serial killers tonight.

She ascends the stairs quietly, pausing when she hears a noise from above, and wonders if Sherlock and John are still awake, but she can see from here that the sitting room lights are off. Molly hears the noise again, and walks a little quicker. One step creaks very slightly as she scales the stairs.

When she reaches the top, she's certain the lights are off. The door is ajar. The only light in the room is the moonlight filtering through the curtains, but she can already see that something is wrong. Against one of the few blank areas of wall, she sees a dark blob, with another smaller light-colored blob floating next to it.

As her eyes adjust, she realizes that the white shape is John's face. His eyes are wide as he catches sight of Molly, who's just grasped what the long, dark shape in front of the doctor is.

It all happens too quickly. Molly gasps, the blurry form pressed against John flies away from him, faster than she can see, and suddenly the vampire is wrapped around Molly, a cold hand pressed to her mouth, hindering the scream ready to burst from her lips. She can't see anything of the one holding her captive, but John is slumped to the ground, moving slowly. As he gets to his feet and walks unsteadily towards them, the vampire, who hasn't moved any further, disappears suddenly from around Molly. She sees a blur near the downward stairs, and abruptly, it's gone.

John catches her as she trips while walking towards him. "It's okay, he's gone." His eyes are wide as he looks over her shoulder, scanning the darkness.

Molly feels something wet on her back. She pulls away and sees that John's wrist is glistening darkly.

She flicks the light switch. Thick crimson liquid is smeared across John's arm, though it isn't bleeding as profusely as she'd feared. "Oh my God." And then, urgently, "Sherlock!"

Ten seconds later, Sherlock stumbles into the room, dressed in just his boxers. Molly flushes. "If you want me to sleep more, Molly, you should try not to wake me up. What _are_ you doing here anyway? I'm assuming it's important—" and then he sees John.

"John!" He runs to his flatmate and grabs his wrist, staring at it, then pulls him into the kitchen. Molly follows, numbly.

Sherlock puts John's arm into the sink and turns the cold water on all the way.

"Shit, Sherlock, that's cold," mutters John.

Molly gapes. "You were just attacked by a vampire, John!"

"The puncture wasn't that big. I'm fine, really. He didn't get much, anyway. I came down to get a drink of water about five minutes ago," he explains. "He'd just started when you came in. Molly, I'm fine," he says emphatically when Molly pulls his wrist out of the water and starts to tightly wrap a towel around it.

"No you're not—"

"I'm a doctor, Molly." He pulls his arm away. "The punctures are smaller than they look."

He's right. After washing away most of the blood, there are only two small holes in his arm. Molly calms down a little. Sherlock is now entirely calm, the earlier urgency gone.

"It should seal quickly," Sherlock says. "Studies have shown that vampires have stayed hidden for so long because something in their saliva closes the bites marks quickly; presumably when they finish they lick the wounds and as a result, the tissue doesn't scar. Yours should take a bit longer because there probably wasn't a lick at the end but there's still some of the saliva in the openings even though we washed it."

John rubs his arm and checks. The blood has started to clot already. "If it leaves no mark then how did they learn about it?"

"There were plenty of people who came forward once that stupid video went online. They'd told their friends and families about being attacked, but since there were no marks, nobody believed them. The few victims that have been saved from draining since — positively identified as attacked by vampires — all exhibited the same quick healing," Sherlock explains.

"All right," Molly says anxiously, "but there's still the problem of the vampire having got in here in the first place. Aren't they not able to enter human homes without permission?"

Sherlock nods. "True. Inexplicably. One of the few things the myths got right. It's improbable, but perhaps the proper view of the rule is not that they cannot enter, but that they can't _break_ and enter. One of the windows might have been left unlocked tonight."

After everyone has settled down to an acceptable level, they check the windows. Molly is worried again. The windows are all locked. "But—"

"The entering rule's been completely proven, Molly," John says. "Most likely he came through the window and locked it behind him. I think I felt a draft before I was, er, attacked. Windows aren't the fastest escape routes anyway. He probably intended to leave as he did, through the front door."

"But why here anyway?" Molly is determined to find the answer to at least one question. "In the middle of the city? I'm sure that there are plenty of curfew-violators out there. Why go to the trouble to break into this flat?"

John and Sherlock look at each other. "No idea," Sherlock says, and then walks towards the living room.

"You don't even care?" Molly asks incredulously.

"Nope. Tired," he says, unconvincingly. "You'd better sleep here tonight. Looks like I'll be taking the couch again."

"You wouldn't even have noticed if John had been drained," Molly bursts out. "You were asleep while John was here being attacked. You say you have such amazing hearing, but you slept through _this_?"

John puts a hand on her shoulder. "Molly. It really is okay. We'll just make absolute sure our windows are locked from now on, okay?"

Molly shrugs off the hand. "You, too? I thought _you'd_ care more."

"Just rest, okay? It's not as bad as it looks."

"Fine," she nearly growls, "but if anyone is going to leave their bedroom, wake someone else before they go. And you, you could have yelled, you know?" She says the last to John before storming away to Sherlock's old bedroom.

"And I'm calling Harry!"

The two look at each other for a long moment.

John glances over at the kitchen table. "We got blood on your equipment," he says.

"And on the floor," Sherlock points to the thin trail. "Mrs. Hudson won't like that."

They glance at each other again.

"Now's probably not the best time to laugh," John points out, directly before they do so, wholeheartedly.

But it's not really funny, and they know it.


	5. Chapter 4

**_15 February 2014_**

The next morning, Molly is phoned from Bart's.

"They're re-opening for a skeleton staff only," she explains curtly to Sherlock and John, still irritated over the events of last night. "I'm to be one of the few to continue work for now, since they think they're going to have quite a lot of dead bodies coming in."

She leaves without another word, and Sherlock and John attempt to busy themselves with finding a relatively quiet case for now.

Around lunch, however, Molly rings them from the hospital. She has something to show them.

"He was found last night. Two blocks from our flat." Molly wonders briefly when she'd started thinking of 221B as home, then shakes her head and continues. "He's been drained, as you can probably see for yourself."

The man is young, mid-twenties, and slightly heavy around the middle. Molly's report shows that his Breath Alcohol Content, if he'd still been alive, is twice the legal limit.

"He was careless for just one minute, and it killed him," Molly says pointedly, looking at John.

Sherlock and John sigh. "Look, we understand, Molly, but we're not in any danger anymore. Really. We're not," John says gently.

The scowl on Molly's face is surprisingly ferocious. "Not now, you aren't. But what about last night? I hadn't planned on coming back home, and Sherlock clearly isn't as observant as he likes to think he is."

"I object to that," Sherlock says plaintively.

"You shut up," Molly says fiercely. Sherlock is surprised enough to do so. "I haven't forgiven you for allowing this to happen on your watch."

"John is _fine_," Sherlock insists. "And honestly, Mr.…" he leans over to read the name on Molly's clipboard, "Mr. David was simply irresponsible. It's a coincidence."

Molly's eyes widen. "It happened _two blocks_ from 221B. Last night. How is that a coincidence?"

"Probably a dozen people in the city are being attacked every night, these days," Sherlock says dismissively. "It's simply a matter of chance as to the location of the—"

"We'll keep the windows locked from now on," John interrupts. "Okay?" he asks Molly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Molly looks as if she wants to pur, but keeps her mouth closed.

They decide to head back upstairs.

"Caught another one, I see," Sherlock remarks when they run into Lestrade on the way up from the mortuary.

"Sherlock! Mycroft said you'd be here. Yeah, we found another around your place, actually. Near the Baker Street Tube station—" he breaks off, noticing Molly. "Er, I mean…"

Molly looks at the others curiously. "Hi, Greg," she says after an awkward moment.

He nods. "Molly. Er, would you…" he trails off again.

Sherlock looks at Molly. "She's okay," he assures Lestrade after a second.

"Are you sure?" The DI says hesitantly.

Molly looks around, confused. "What's going on? What did you catch?"

Lestrade shakes his head minutely. Molly catches his meaning after a moment and nods. She runs upstairs to notify her boss that she's taking her lunch break outside of the hospital.

The group follows the DI to an unmarked car waiting outside, courtesy of Mycroft. John finally recognizes the situation for what it is.

"Why are _you_ working with Mycroft?" he asks Lestrade once they're all in the vehicle and the door is closed.

"He came to me," Lestrade explains. "He got wind of the last one we caught somehow—"

"Surprise," Sherlock mutters.

"—but it died the next day, like you said, anyway. This newest one was found by his people, actually. It was already dead before the sun came up. They got the body out before sunrise."

Sherlock frowns. "Why come to _you?_ You didn't do much of a good job on the last one, as I recall."

Lestrade glares. "You said yourself that we couldn't do anything about the last one."

Molly finally speaks up. "Are you talking about _vampires?_"

John fills her in quietly while Sherlock and Lestrade argue. The driver looks like he regrets ever signing on to work for Mycroft.

"Mycroft. Might I ask for what reason you've chosen to dirty your hands with the likes of us?" Sherlock sneers once the group reaches the bottom of the stairs in the nondescript concrete building, where his brother is waiting.

"Dead vampires on the streets of London, brother mine," Mycroft answers smoothly.

Sherlock doesn't let it go at that. "And why does that concern you?" he demands.

His brother rolls his eyes exasperatedly. "Because, Sherlock, vampires are supposed to be the most dangerous things on the streets. The fact that there is something out there killing them is a most disturbing thought."

"Clearly it was another vampire, Mycroft. Surely you can deduce that yourself," Sherlock says dismissively. "Why is this so important that it warrants both my attention and yours?"

Mycroft glances at the other members of the group. "Why don't you all go in and take a look at the body? I'm sure it'll be very interesting for you, Miss Hooper."

Lestrade, Molly, and John exchange looks. "I think I'll stay here," John begins, but Mycroft cuts him off with a swing of his umbrella. "You too, John."

John looks at Sherlock, who nods slightly. He follows the others into the room that holds the dead vampire.

The door shuts behind the little group. Mycroft taps his umbrella on the linoleum a couple of times before he speaks.

"I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Sherlock, but I can assure you that it won't end well."

"Okay, Greg, what is this all about?" John demands once the door closes.

Lestrade shrugs. "With those two?" He gestures at the door. "Who can ever know? You should probably take a look at the body. You two are actually the first medical professionals to look at it, unless there was a doctor in Mycroft's retrieval team that I didn't know about."

Molly's already at the table holding the corpse. She pulls on a pair of gloves and buttons up the lab coat that she's still wearing, from Bart's.

John moves over to the table as well and picks up a set of gloves. Lestrade hangs back.

They start examining the body. Molly finds a clipboard and some blank paper, but no forms. She takes notes while John lifts various limbs and feels several different areas on the skin.

"This is the first vamp I've seen," Molly remarks generally. "He looks pretty normal, actually. Can you see any fangs?" The last is to John, who moves to the head.

He opens the jaw carefully. The teeth appear normal at first but when John peers closer, the canines seem to be shaped slightly differently, allowing for a hollow center. "Retracted," he says, before closing the mouth.

"How'd he die?" Lestrade asks from near the door.

"Broken neck," John says after a moment. "Very clean."

Lestrade moves closer, morbidly curious. "No chance it could've been an accident?"

John shakes his head. "Vampire bones are a lot stronger than ours. Besides, I've heard that they're very in control of their bodies. I doubt they make very many mistakes, physically at least."

"So it's what Sherlock said. He was killed by another vampire?" Molly asks.

Lestrade frowns. "Why would a vampire kill a vampire?"

"Why would a human kill a human?" John answers, still inspecting the body.

The DI's brow folds, as if he's never thought of this before. "Yeah, but it's a bit different, isn't it?"

John frowns back. "In what way?"

"Well, they're… they're _vampires_," Lestrade answers, holding his hands out.

"Vampires aren't all the same," John says disapprovingly.

"How do you mean?"

John shrugs. "I think it's like racial hate, really. You can't condemn vampires in general for the actions of a few. It's like all the shit about terrorism and Arabs. They aren't really connected. Same with vampires."

"They killed your sister's wife!" Lestrade says, incredulous.

The doctor crosses his arms. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. _A vampire_ killed Clara. Not the entire vampire race."

Lestrade shakes his head. "They're all wrong, in my opinion. Completely and utterly unnatural and wrong and the more of them we hunt down, the better."

John loses it. "Hunt down? _Hunt down?_ You haven't really caught a single one, not one that wasn't dead or dying! I'll bet that's why you're so angry about all this; it's making the Met look even worse than Sherlock ever did!"

"If you two are quite done?" Molly says loudly before Lestrade can answer. "Report's pretty much complete. D'you think those two are finished yet?" she gestures at the door.

Lestrade and John glare at each other, ignoring Molly.

"Fine," she huffs. "Look, you two, it's political opinion. Honestly, is this issue ever going to be important in life? I mean, we don't really have a lot of contact with vampires outside of attacks, so clearly if there are others they're are kind of, I dunno, shy? Anyway, where are you going to meet a vampire where you get the chance to ask them if they're friendly or not? Unless that's what you were trying to do last night," she says sharply, to John.

"What happened last night?" Lestrade asks.

Molly tells him.

"Jesus, John!" Lestrade exclaims when she's finished. "And you _defend_ them?"

"I'm not defending the violent ones," John says heatedly.

Before the argument can pick up again, however, Mycroft and Sherlock enter the room.

"What did you find?" Sherlock asks.

Molly hands him the clipboard. "Broken neck, hairline fracture at the back of the skull, minor bruising on the collarbone, and he's a bit scraped up at the knees," she summarizes. "I didn't know they could be hurt like that," she remarks.

"They can be hurt in basically the same ways as you or I," John explains. "The stake-through-the-heart thing is inaccurate. Well, I suppose a stake could kill them, too, but it'd kill us as well."

"Stronger structures, though, John, don't forget," Sherlock reminds him. "And quick healing."

"Yeah, but mostly the normal stuff will work if you're trying to kill them," John finishes.

"Actually, guns are probably a bit unreliable. I don't know what would happen if you shot a vampire in the torso area, heart included. Depends on if the bullet stayed in the body or not. The vampire body could probably heal a bullet wound if it went all the way through, although if it were still lodged inside the healing process probably wouldn't work," Sherlock says critically.

Lestrade crosses his arms. "Better just shoot them in the head, then, that what you're saying?"

John frowns. Sherlock sighs. "Yes, a bullet through the brain is always effective, I'm sure."

"I'm going to turn the cadaver over to my scientists, if you've finished," Mycroft says.

Molly and John look at the body. "It would be really fascinating to work on it," Molly says wistfully.

Mycroft looks at her slowly. "I think I could arrange for you to be on the team," he says after a minute.

"Really? Oh my…" Molly says, looking at the body. "Yes, please."

Mycroft nods. He turns back to the door and holds it open, making it clear that the group should leave now.

They file through the doorway and out into the hall. Mycroft stays behind and watches John's and Sherlock's retreating backs, the last out of the room before him. He shakes his head and pulls out his phone to dial Anthea.


	6. Chapter 5

**_24 February 2014_**

Molly comes awake in the middle of the night, just after one o'clock, instinct telling her that something is wrong again.

She steps outside of her room and walks down to John's room. She raps softly on the door, which is closed, as usual. No answer, but John's a heavy sleeper. She knocks slightly harder, to silence. She doesn't want to bother him, but she can't be certain of her instinct, so she creeps downstairs to the sitting room. Even though Sherlock sleeps downstairs, she takes with her the gun that John has insisted she carry with her.

She lets her sight adjust fully this time, before opening the door. The hinges make no sound. The curtains are open, letting unobstructed moonlight illuminate the room.

And against the same wall as last time is a familiar shape.

Molly wonders numbly for several seconds if she's experiencing some kind of horrible déjà-vu, then comes to her senses and walks quietly towards the vampire and John, whose eyes are closed this time.

She's surprised that the vamp can't hear her breathing, or her heart thumping heavily in her chest, but perhaps he's distracted, because she's within nearly a meter of the dark muddle when John opens his eyes and sees her.

What transpires within the next few seconds is entirely unexpected, at least on Molly's part.

John opens his mouth and yells, "Stop!" just as Molly is lifting her gun. The vampire unfolds from John's wrist, again darkened, and spins around, eyes wide.

Molly stumbles backward, the hand holding the gun trembling, because the tall form in front of her wears a too-familiar face.

She turns and bolts, knowing how useless flight is against this kind of predator, but she isn't pursued.

"Molly!" Sherlock calls after her, but John grabs his arm before he can decide to follow.

"We'll fix this," John promises weakly. "She'll come back."

Sherlock wipes his mouth on his sleeve, staring dully out the door, eyes wide. He turns to John. "Oh God," he mumbles. His eyes flicker over John's face, then down to his wrist.

He walks numbly to the kitchen and grabs a thin towel.

"What are you doing?" John asks, staring at the empty doorway.

Sherlock spits on the towel and ties it around John's wrist. John nods in understanding. "Oh."

They're both shocked. Sherlock looks back out the door with John. "Did she…?"

And then they finally comprehend that Molly is alone on the streets of London, alone. At night.

"Oh my God," John says as he realizes. Sherlock looks back at him, wide-eyed. "Molly's in danger, Sherlock. She isn't thinking. She doesn't understand. We have to find her," John says urgently, and runs downstairs. Sherlock follows.

The street is deserted by the time they're out of the door. Molly has a couple minutes on them and she's panicked, which means she could have gotten quite far already. John looks around in dismay while Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. His eyes open after a second, and he points in a direction. John doesn't question it, just follows.

Sherlock keeps the pursuit at a speed that John can keep up with, but just barely. They catch up to Molly in fewer than five minutes, but the whole time John is wondering if she'll be attacked before they reach her.

She's hiding in the shadow of a phone box when they see her. John reaches forward and stops Sherlock before they get too close. "She's got a gun and she's probably scared," John reminds Sherlock. "I'll handle this." The detective nods.

John approaches slowly. Molly makes no attempt to move, but stands stiffly upright, back to the phone box, gun clutched in both hands and pointed down.

"Molly, are you okay?" John asks cautiously.

She's breathing heavily, but slowly, which is a good sign. She eyes Sherlock over John's shoulder. The detective hangs back.

"Not sure," she answers quietly, voice tense. But she's calmer than John'd expected, after the initial shock. Perhaps it's all the time spent around cadavers that's allowed her to keep her cool this well.

John shuffles closer. "Do you think… I know this is a lot to ask right now, but do you think you could come back with us to Baker Street? It's not safe out here at this time. You know that," he reminds her.

Her eyes flicker back to Sherlock. John catches the movement. "He's perfectly safe, Molly. I promise. I've been living with him for a lot longer than you have, remember?"

Sherlock's phone buzzes in his coat pocket. He glances at it. The number is Mycroft's. It reads, _CCTV picked up Molly Hooper leaving 221 Baker Street. Sending a car over._

"What is it?" Molly asks, somewhat agitatedly.

Sherlock debates opening his mouth to talk, but then passes the phone to John, who reads the text aloud to Molly.

She takes a deep breath, never taking her eyes off of Sherlock. "Will you tell him that it won't be necessary?"

John exhales a breath. "So you're coming back?"

"For now, yes. And — he walks in front," she says quietly, pointing at Sherlock.

John and Sherlock nod quickly at the same time.

They somehow make it back to the flat without incident. Sherlock is careful and doesn't so much as look back at Molly and John.

When they get back inside, they're relieved to find that Mrs. Hudson is still asleep.

"Does she know?" Molly asks, nodding towards the door to 221A. Sherlock shakes his head.

They head upstairs silently. Sherlock turns on the lights as soon as he can.

They arrange themselves in the consulting positions, Sherlock and John in their chairs, opposite of each other, and Molly on the sofa. It's close to the door and far enough away from Sherlock to give her some feeling of security.

Molly asks the questions.

"When did it happen?" is the first one.

Sherlock takes a deep breath before speaking for the first time. "It didn't," he answers.

Molly looks at John, wondering if she missed something or if possibly Sherlock misunderstood the meaning of her question. "It… didn't happen?" But clearly it had…

"I wasn't turned, if that's what you were asking. I was born like this. I'm what they've been calling a Generation vampire, as opposed to a Turned. You've probably heard the terminology in the news," Sherlock states.

Molly takes a moment to grasp this. "Okay." She pauses. She takes a couple of deep breaths before asking her next question. "I've seen you in the sun, lots of times. Is that just another myth, the burning in the sunlight thing?"

Sherlock shakes his head to this one. "No."

"But—"

"I was raised in a very conservative family, for vampires. They weren't very up-to-date. Most Generation aren't. But at a very early age, I was sick of staying in the shadows all the time. It's only directly in sunlight that we burn, so I'd seen it through windows and screens before, but most of the time I was only allowed out at night, for very good reasons. When I was eight, however, I started to dabble in chemistry. I experimented with finding a cure for the allergic reaction to sunlight. That, I never found, but by the time I was twelve, I'd made a working medication that partially weakened the reaction. With that first version, I'd get what looked like an awful sunburn after five minutes, but we heal quickly, so I got to test it a lot. I've been refining the formula ever since. The one I use now works for just over two weeks at a time."

Wide-eyed, Molly presses back into the sofa. "So when you asked me about the police checking with more than the sunlight test…"

Sherlock shakes his head. "That was just curiosity. I've never shared the formula or any sample of the medication with anyone. As far as I know, I'm the only vampire with something like this. Mycroft is the only one who even knows about it, other than John."

"Mycroft!" Molly realizes. "Is he… he's also…?"

The detective nods.

"But he doesn't use the medication?" Molly asks. "I don't know if I've ever seen him in daylight."

"He refuses to use it. He completely rejects his heritage, in fact. He doesn't feed. He only consumes human food, and as a result, he is incredibly weak. Only when it is absolutely imperative that he be out during the day does he contact me, and with great reluctance. He's only used the medication a few times, and in very small quantities," Sherlock explains.

Molly isn't sure whether this is reassuring or not. "You're the only one?" she asks finally.

Sherlock nods an affirmative.

Molly takes a little time to come up with her next question. It's an uncomfortable one.

"Er… well, this thing is… From everything I've heard about vampires, they — _you_ — don't have a lot of control over, er, urges. John told me about the vampire that Greg had been holding and he'd been using drugs to suppress the craving for… blood." She winces, glancing at John's wrapped wrist. John tries too late to hide his hand.

Sherlock doesn't look. "You're wondering if I use similar drugs because otherwise I would clearly be attacking everyone with a beating heart who came within my sight line," he says coldly.

Molly flinches again. "N — no, I, er," she flounders.

"The answer is no. I don't use anything like that. It's a temptation but I have a lot of self-control. I always have."

"But you're not like Mycroft," Molly says hesitantly.

"I don't abstain, no. I think it would be letting myself go to waste. And I might as well answer your next question: Is John the only one I feed from? We actually haven't gotten that far, honestly. You interrupted us during the only two times that we've tried it. John didn't even know until the day that video came online, and I hadn't told him before because it wasn't relevant," he explains.

"So who do you—"

Sherlock anticipates this question, too. "Random individuals on the streets. Late-night stragglers, lonely people. I'm very careful, unlike most others. I _am_ a scientist; I know how to administer sedatives and I know how much blood the human body can function normally on. I don't drain people. Like I said, I have a lot of self-control."

The three of them are silent for a long time. Molly can't think of any more questions just now, and though her adrenaline levels are probably back down to normal, she's itching to get off the sofa. She stands. John and Sherlock remain sitting, eyeing her cautiously.

Molly thinks for a long time. She looks at Sherlock, and then at John, and then out the window, and back at Sherlock and then the wall against which she'd found the pair of them earlier. When she comes to her decision, she looks back at John and Sherlock. And then she answers the question that they've all been dreading asking.

"I won't tell. And I'll stay," says Molly. Sherlock and John exhale loudly and look at each other. She's not finished, however. "I think I trust you. Both of you. But I _will_ find somewhere else to stay if need be, and I'm sleeping with my gun loaded and ready to fire next to me from now on."

"I can get you a vial of acid if you'd like; it'd probably be more effective," Sherlock mutters. John scoots forward on his chair and kicks him, hard. Sherlock shuts up.

Molly looks at them sharply. "I hope that won't be necessary," she says, her voice strained.

"He's being tactless, as usual," John says, glaring. "Aren't you, Sherlock?"

The detective nods meekly.

A thought occurs to John. "He is thinking in the right direction, though, I think," he says.

"What?" Sherlock says loudly. "I'm not too keen on getting acid burns—"

"Shut up, Sherlock. I meant we should think about defense against vampires in general. I can't believe I haven't asked you about this already. That way Molly can feel better about all this and we can keep taking cases that require us to be out at night and you won't have to keep an eye on me all the time."

Sherlock nearly laughs. "There is nothing that I can teach you," he says derisively.

"Of course there is—"

"You misunderstand. Against the average vampire, the kind that doesn't know how to use his or her speed, any self-defense class would prepare you well enough. John, you've had formal combat training. You could probably teach that kind of thing better than I could. Just know how to use a gun and a knife and you'll be equally matched against most vampires. And before you ask, we don't have any secret weak points. We've talked about this."

John crosses his arms. "The average vampire, you said. What's the non-average vampire? What can we do against them?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "The self-aware vampire moves so fast that you couldn't see them in time to stop them. There aren't a lot of those, Generation or Turned."

"So you're saying we don't stand a chance so we shouldn't try?" Molly says angrily.

Sherlock is taken slightly aback. "That night when you came back from Harry's unexpectedly. When you caught us in the sitting room, you gasped. I heard you, stopped you from screaming, and ran downstairs and outside so that you would hear the door. When I heard you talking to John, I ran back upstairs. Your back was turned. John saw me. I went to my bedroom and undressed, and was able to answer you when you called for me," he tells her, as an example.

Molly frowns. "That's mostly sneaking around. Show me."

"Show you what?" Sherlock asks, puzzled.

"Do something. Run," she requests.

"What, in here?"

"Yes."

Sherlock looks around the room. "Window to refrigerator," he decides. "zero-point-zero-two seconds."

Molly crosses her arms, shaking her head. "Now that's just arrogant."

"Stand there," Sherlock instructs, pointing at an area in front of the couch. He moves over to one of the windows. "Watch the air between here and the refrigerator."

Molly does as he says, out of curiosity.

Sherlock disappears.

In Molly's peripheral vision, Sherlock is gone, and she sees a very brief blur before her eyes before he appears in the kitchen, next to the fridge.

Even John, who's seen this before, is open-mouthed in awe.

"Oh," says Molly.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> This fanfic was originally published on Archive of Our Own. I have not written anything new in this story for several months. I have several WIPs currently, and I'm having problems with pacing and such, so have decided to focus solely — only for _now_ — on one of my fics, _Seasons of Strangers_. For the rest of the multi-chapter fics that I am planning on developing further, I am posting this notice to let any and all readers know that there will not be any chapter updates any time soon. That said, this post is also a guarantee that I will be continuing the story, no matter how long it takes. It simply means that I will no longer be focusing any notable part of my attention on developing the storyline, but on continuing and finishing _Seasons of Strangers_.


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